Cheers, Siha
by istie
Summary: Commander Shepard is getting married, and Thane Krios is nursing a glass of wine and coming to terms with the fact that she is not marrying him. Rated T for potentially-suggestive mentions. Post-ME3 with tweaks to canon. One-shot.


A/N: Based on the following prompt:

"Song- Cheers Darlin' by Damien Rice _(youtube it! it's gorgeous)_

Thane being beautifully morose over Shep. Shep can be male or female, but the LI should be male because if Shep was only into women the guy never had a chance to begin with. Preference for the LI would be Kaidan or Garrus because the history they have with Shep from the SR-1 makes things more interesting. If this can actually -be- set at/around a wedding (Thane would be alive because of Reasons) that would be good, but I bet anons can come up with plenty of clever ideas.

In short, Thane's a darling and I want to feel bad about not picking him because my Shep was already well dedicated to their LI by that point. But please, no bashing of anyone involved."

**Cheers, Siha**

* * *

The wedding was, of course, everything that everyone expected it to be, and more. The great Commander Shepard did not just get married; she _got married_.

Somehow, that made it so much worse. Thane mused to himself that if they had simply made it happen, rather than making it a spectacle, he would have been okay. As it was, he sat at the table in the reception hall – the most expensive one on the Presidium, if he remembered correctly (which he always did) – in the dim light, silently swirling the remaining wine in his glass, and he felt closer to despair than he had in a long time. _What am I, siha?_

The party had been going for several hours; after the war, no one needed an excuse to relax, and the biggest wedding since that of the Vice-Primarch's daughter gave everyone the opportunity to do so. Thane knew that both the bride and groom (and their families) had spared no expense, and he also knew that the governments they represented had quietly added not-insignificant funds to what they knew would be an excellent morale boost to the remainder of the galaxy. At the moment, the live band was crooning a tune that featured a human instrument quite prominently – he thought it was called a clarinet. It was morose, but in a sentimental fashion. Thane could see that many who had been dancing were taking the opportunity to get another drink; he presumed that a fair portion of the partygoers were missing their other halves, and it was incredibly bittersweet for so many in the room to see the gloriously-happy couple slowly rotating around each other at the centre of the dance floor.

He could barely see them. It was quite late, and the lighting cycles had not yet been fully restored: as a result, night was truly night on the Citadel for the first time in likely millions of years. It was… picturesque. And painful. He could see Shepard, like an angel, seemingly floating over the iridescent tiles – and he could see _him_, a silhouette, a shadow to her brilliance, his eyes upon her face, his hand upon her hand, his mouth caressing her skin—

He stood up, quietly, and moved towards the bar, on the pretext, if anyone was looking (which no one was) of getting another drink. As it was, he knew he had consumed far too much alcohol already, and before he reached the open bar and the ageless wisdom of the asari bartender who knew far too much, he slipped into the shadows, and then out into the gardens, where he walked casually along the lakefront, wineglass still in hand. He had her wedding bells in his ear, winding their way into his mind, colouring his crystalline memories and making his breath hitch for more reasons than the Kepral's Syndrome.

He came to the end of the path, a white metal fence between him and the lake, and on the other side, the remains of the once-bustling Presidium Financial District. The dismal view fit his mental state like a glove, and he sipped mindlessly at the half-inch of wine in his glass before leaning both forearms on the fence, the gleaming vessel cradled in deft hands.

Hands that he wished had touched that angel. Hands he wished were entwined with hers in long-lasting commitment. Hands that longed for her.

He remembered meeting her. She'd been in the company of the turian and the salarian, and they'd just cleared out about three-quarters of the guards which he would have had to deal with otherwise on the way to his target. He had known, of course, that she was looking for him – he always knew who was looking for him – but she had been an anomaly, nothing more. Someone of interest.

Then he had seen her fight, and his whole world had threatened to shift. He had met and observed warriors who _almost_ merited the moniker of _siha_– asari commandos who killed with lethal grace, a female turian Blackwatch operative who moved with the spirits of anger and fury, a quarian infiltrator whom he had glimpsed for only instants in her silent game, and once, just once, a justicar in whom flowed the distilled essence of the universe's pain and suffering. Each was nothing but the merest flickering candle next to Shepard's blinding nova.

From the first moment he'd seen her from the catwalks in the Dantius Towers, issuing crisp orders to Vakarian and Solus, and taking down a squad of six well-trained, well-equipped mercs in less than ten seconds, he had understood, intimately, why they followed her. She was not _like_ a _siha_; she _was_one.

And she was irrevocably, unquestionably, taken. This he had known from early on as well: though Shepard had spoken with him nearly every day, taking time out of her schedule to visit him in the life support room and ask him about his life, his culture, his family, she had never been anything more than a good, caring friend – and her attachment elsewhere had been discreet, but he died every time she mentioned his name. She had asked about Irikah, and had been respectful as no one ever had when hearing about an assassin with a wife and child. He had no doubts that she understood the feelings on both sides: Irikah, so righteously indignant that she would throw herself in front of a laser sight; Thane, so completely shocked that he had sought her forgiveness.

She respected his love for his wife; she understood it – and Thane loved her all the more for it. He had struggled with his feelings for Shepard; he loved Irikah deeply, and always had, and always would. He knew, deep within himself, that Irikah was part of his life, and that she still held part of his heart – even to her grave deep in the oceans of Kahje.

He also knew that he had fallen just as hard for Shepard. A _siha_was a person you met once in your lifetime, if at all. Thane had longed deeply to meet Shepard halfway: to be everything she needed, to steady each wavering connection between her body and her spirit; to let her love and care soothe the angry welts on his soul, to let her fill the aching hole from which Irikah had been torn.

It was not to be. Shepard had asked him to train her in his hand-to-hand techniques: outwardly, he had accepted with the grace of an aging expert; inwardly, he had leapt at the chance to spend more time with her. Part of him had hoped, perhaps selfishly, certainly foolishly, to sway her. Alternatively, and far more realistically, he would be able to see her in action even more often, and therefore gather more memories. A warrior's beauty queen, sitting next to him.

He bent his head to his chest, coughing once, quietly – the sound which emanated from his throat was as if he had smoked away his tears. It was not in his nature to be ostentatious. Though he had been able, with the help of the small Japanese girl, to take out the Cerberus assassin without undue damage to himself, he knew that he had little time left. He had spoken with Shepard at length during his stay at Huerta Memorial; she had asked him about his faith, and he had prayed for her. With her. He had thought – the doctors had thought, Kolyat had thought – that those were his last hours.

But he had lived on, as if he had years to wait. He had lived to see the utter destruction wrought upon the galaxy: a destruction which he had never thought he would live to see, much less comprehend. But the _siha_, in all her glory, had conquered.

And now, she was married.

And it was not to him.

And she was happy.

And, in some melancholy, bittersweet, eternal way that the hanar would no doubt have a way of showing, so was Thane.

Footsteps. He did not turn. He knew them all too well.

"You never were one for crowds, Thane." Another set of forearms leaned on the railing to his left.

"Not those where I am well-known, _siha_." An easy camaraderie; he should have kissed her when they were alone…

She laughed. The sound of angels. A whisper in his ear; a piece of her cake.

He shifted his wiry body to face her, leaning only on his right arm, wineglass in his left hand. She was perfection. He could find no words; he doubted a hanar could find the right lights.

She mirrored his movement, a glass in her right hand, and looked back at him, but stayed silent. She knew the value of silence, and something within Thane told him that she knew the unspoken words behind his silence, as well.

If he had not already been broken for many years, that realization would likely have shattered him. Instead, there was only that ever-present feeling of simultaneously longing for that which can never be, and understanding why – paired with deep regret, and honest, sincere happiness.

No one could ever accuse Thane Krios of living in denial.

He raised his glass, and touched it to hers.

"Cheers, _siha_."


End file.
